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The woozy delights of pointless shopping

By ROBYN E. BLUMNER
Published December 25, 2005

It happens every time I walk into a Pottery Barn: I want everything.

Intellectually, I know I don't actually need anything, but that doesn't matter to my brain, which is obviously at that moment so soaked in dopamine that it fails to see through even the most manipulative marketing ploys.

"Oh, look at those jewel-toned chargers and how they are so perfectly matched with the accompanying napkin rings," I think to myself as I walk by a beautifully turned-out table plopped in the way, so I have to walk around it. How Brideshead Revisited.

I'm woozy with delight as I reach for the richly textured or luxurious the way a baby reaches for a sparkly mobile.

The store gets me so mentally bollixed that I now own a faux mink throw that I have casually strewn across my couch, very much as it appeared in the display at the store. In making that purchase, I envisioned how warm and inviting it would be to have that sumptuous throw available to snuggle in on frigid winter days. The fact that I live in Florida and don't face frigid winter days did not occur to me at the time.

This only happens to me in places like Pottery Barn, Z Gallerie and Crate & Barrel. I can march through clothing stores without a single errant urge. Electronic gizmos leave me yawning - I have no inclination to have music playing in my ears every idle moment. I try not to go car shopping more than once a decade. Even if I could afford to do it more often, cars hold no allure beyond their use as a necessary mode of transportation. Besides, just being near a car dealership makes me feel duped.

But shopping for things to deck out a house - elaborate tableware, sleek bar accoutrements and hotel-quality linens - brings with it an overpowering desire to acquire.

I mention this to commiserate with those who are looking at the detritus of another Christmas, surrounded by stuff they have just accumulated (i.e., presents) and still planning their attack on the malls for the after-Christmas sales.

Most of us have just received a pile of new things, yet our desires are not sated. There are deals to be had.

I understand this acquisitive affliction that besets so many Americans. I say "affliction" because I do believe it's a pathology of sorts, though one with a basis in natural human desire.

As a nation we now have a personal savings rate of zero and consumer debt topping $2.2-trillion - twice where it stood merely a decade ago. The average household that doesn't pay off its credit cards on a monthly basis carries about $13,000 in consumer debt. (Which means the item bought at an unbelievable sale price is a sucker's deal if you figure in fees and interest.)

Everyone knows that saving for retirement is a vital habit to get into if one is actually planning to retire. But we have become a nation of grasshoppers, fiddling, dancing and spending as if winter will never come (like today's Congress) while those ants in China save more than 40 percent of their disposable income every year.

Here, it is more important to own a battery-operated fake bass that sings Take Me to the River while wriggling on a plaque than to put the $29.99 in the bank to enjoy the magic of compound interest. What fun is watching your savings grow when there's a fish that sings!

Yet all this is not buying us happiness. If anything, it contributes to our national angst.

We have become so overwhelmed by our own stuff that there are television shows devoted to helping us part with masses of it. Multiple rooms in the subject's home are typically overrun to the point of rendering them useless. We look at those disabled people and their out-of-control lives with self-satisfied contempt. "How could anyone let things get so bad?" we chuckle as we stuff our latest purchases into walk-in closets the size of small rooms and lease storage units to house what we can no longer fit into garages and attics.

This affluenza has spawned a simplicity movement that counsels people to downsize. The Simple Living Network (www.simpleliving.net) says it offers over 500 books, workbooks, audios and videos to people looking for "conscious, simple, healthy and restorative living." Which seems like a lot of stuff to buy to learn how to stop buying stuff.

I don't know the answer to our crazed consumerist culture. But I suspect that simply being happy with what one has is an attribute found only among Tibetan monks and inanimate objects. We carbon-based life forms are constantly struggling for more and better, whether it's a bigger shell for a hermit crab or a McMansion for the Joneses. Happiness always seems just a few more things out of reach.

So if you see me in Pottery Barn, please don't try to stop me from purchasing my armful of frivolity. My brain and common sense are enjoying the holiday.

[Last modified December 22, 2005, 17:46:02]